


Overthinking

by CodenameMeretricious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Fluff, Kisses, Love, M/M, implied victorlock, lots of sighing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodenameMeretricious/pseuds/CodenameMeretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock assesses the question of love. </p><p>Mindless drivel with no real plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overthinking

“John,” Sherlock sighed, leaning his head back further against the armrest of the sofa.

“Mmm?” John asked, lips far too busy short-circuiting Sherlock’s brain to form words.

“Do you think—mmm.” His stomach flipped as John’s teeth grazed his jaw. What had he being trying to say?

“I don’t know why you insist on overthinking this,” John said. He pulled back slightly, a rush of cold air filling the space where his mouth had been lavishing such exquisite attention to Sherlock’s neck.

“I’m not—.” Not overthinking, that’s what he’d meant to say, but Sherlock didn’t know how to not overthink. He _only_ overthought. Could one underthink? What would be the point of that? And why would he want to underthink the myriad sensations currently overwhelming his already taxed brain?

“Yes you are,” John said, but there was a smile in the voice, a fondness.

Partners. They’d always been partners – solving crimes called for more than just flatmates, especially the kind Sherlock liked. And then one day they’d come back from a case, high on adrenaline and exhausted from a chase that had crossed the whole of south London and they had been leaning a little close and then John was leaning closer and Sherlock didn’t lean back and they’d ended up in Sherlock’s room, clothes scattered and not a single word spoken other than the ghost of his name on John’s lips. And that had been that. They hadn’t talked about it, though Sherlock catalogued for days. Rather, they’d gone on with their lives, same as always, only this time with shagging.

And the change had been nice. Sherlock no longer second-guessed the fizz in his stomach whenever John was near and John complained even less about making Sherlock tea. It was nice. It was quiet. It _was_.

“Sherlock…”

The detective sighed, pulled back from his thoughts, but only somewhat guilty about it. He had, after all, been thinking about John. Just not this John. Not the John currently pinning him against the sofa and looking quite eager to get on with things. Sherlock tried to force a sheepish expression on his face.

“What do you think about?” John asked. “What can possibly be more interesting than what’s happening right now?” The words could have come across as harsh, but the tone was soft and Sherlock relaxed. This wasn’t Victor trying to pull him back, berate him for letting his mind wander. This was John, and he understood.

Seeming to read the thought, John brought one hand up to card through Sherlock’s hair. The fingers paused, thumb stroking his temple. “What goes on in that great head of yours, eh?” the doctor smiled.

In answer, Sherlock pulled John down and closer, pressing his lips soundly to the doctor’s. He felt John smile in response before a warm tongue was smoothing across his lips and stroking his own. He sighed, leaning back into the sofa and bringing one leg up to pull John closer. He twinned his arms around the doctor’s back and held him there, John sighing into his mouth as he tightened his hold.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock,” the doctor whispered, pulling back a fraction to speak. Sherlock nodded, lifting his head so that even as John spoke his lips were still against Sherlock’s skin. John chuckled and shifted, his weight now almost entirely on Sherlock. But the weight was nice, a physical anchor to combat the storm in his head and he welcomed it, rewarding John with a swift lick behind his ear.

“But what if you get bored?” Sherlock asked, fingers playing with the short, sandy hair above John’s temple.

“Mmmm, shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?”

The idea of being bored with John- John who was tea and jumpers and guns and _John_ was inconceivable.

“I’ve yet to finish categorizing the sounds you make when you first wake up—“

“Sherlock.”

“—and the three different types of biscuits you prefer—“

“Sherlock.”

“—and the number of times you blink when you look at me—“

“How many is that, then?”

“Three times less per minute than when you look at anything else.”

“Because I don’t want to miss any chance to look at you,” John said. He smiled and kissed Sherlock’s lips before he could say more. “No one’s getting bored and no one’s leaving, ‘kay?”

Sherlock looked at him, swiping his tongue across his lips to catch the last taste of John.“I don’t think—“

“Hey,” John stopped him. He brought a hand up, running it through Sherlock’s’ curls before letting it rest there, thumb stroking Sherlock’s jaw. “Not gonna happen.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, still unconvinced. Mycroft had left, Victor had left, and Sherlock could see the pattern.

John moved his hand, tapping Sherlock’s forehead with a callused index finger. Rough; good for pulling triggers and healing wounds. Delicate enough to sew up skin.

“Stop thinking.”

“I—“

“Sherlock, people who love each other don’t leave each other so please stop thinking that I will.” John kissed the spot his finger had been, crowding Sherlock’s senses with his smell, his touch, with everything.

Sherlock blinked, slowly opening his eyes when John leaned back, his weight still settled on Sherlock. “People who…”

“Love each other. You heard me,” John said, a bit of steel in his tone. But steel was defiance and who would argue that—oh. Oh. John thought Sherlock would defy him. John thought Sherlock would fight against it, what with it being sentiment and all.

“You love me,” Sherlock stated.

“Mmm,” John replied, avoiding the detective’s gaze by ducking his head to kiss Sherlock’s jawline.

“And you’re afraid I don’t feel the same.”

“I’m not asking you to,” John said, his breath warm on Sherlock’s neck.

Did John not think that he placed the doctor at the center of every thought? Did he not think it had become wildly apparent from their first case together that Sherlock needed John? He needed the steadiness, the warm jumpers, and the bickering over what to watch on telly. He needed to be forced to eat take away, sleep a few hours every week. He needed the audience for his violin and the knowledge that someone, one single person, cared about him. Were these not qualities found in love? Did these not definitively prove his devotion to the army doctor? John had never been one to need words and Sherlock had never been one for labels, but perhaps they needed this one.

“I do,” Sherlock mumbled, wrapping a hand around the back of John’s neck. The doctor looked up, blue eyes unblinking. “I do though,” Sherlock repeated, solemn as a vow.

“Well that’s good then,” John said softly, a smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. “That’s…” but Sherlock captured the words with his own mouth, wrapping himself around John the best he could in the confined space. John kissed him back more eagerly than before, teeth nipping at his bottom lip and tongue smoothing the sting. Sherlock sighed into it, feeling his whole body relax as the warmth of the admission and John’s body – John’s _love_ – seeped into him.

“See?” John said, pausing to smile down at Sherlock. “No need to overthink it.” And he leaned down to kiss him again.


End file.
